


Amazing Grace, or I was blind but now I see

by pmonkey816



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, but it still has a plot, dark and angsty, intense character study, passing mentions of sexual assault and genocide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:13:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pmonkey816/pseuds/pmonkey816
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Delphine, monitor for Cosima Niehaus, begins to suspect her subject is self-aware. Feeling guilty, she decides to keep a journal and tell her side. Slightly AU (in that Cosima is not self-aware when Delphine first approaches her) exploration of Delphine's feelings throughout the events of season 1, and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Journals and jumping to your death

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, I've had this fic up elsewhere for a while, and I thought about putting it up here, but just... didn't. I guess if I'm being honest, it's a bit close to my heart in some ways, so be gentle with me. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.

I've always kept a journal, ever since I was a young girl and my mother had given me one as a gift. It was beautiful; hand-bound in leather, with the sort of musty smell that made me think perhaps someone had given it to her long ago. It was the smell of used book stores, and libraries. Now the smell brings her to mind: the corners of yellowing, tissue-thin pages, fluttering with the tinge of exhaled smoke, and the waxy scent of her bar soap. And, of course, all of this simply covering a smell that is so uniquely her, that captures some sort of deep truth about who she is as a person. It is the smell that I can pick out amongst all the others as she comes up behind me and puts a hand on either side of the textbook I'm not really reading, the paper I'm not really writing. Because I haven't written anything, not in a long time. One day, I was presented a threshold into a room full of secrets I could not unknow, and I was told that if I wanted to enter it, I must stop writing a journal.

_For everyone's sake._

For their sake. A written confessional is a suicide note for us all, of course, I'm not stupid. My complicity in this huge, conspiratorial scheme is not accidental. I was led to where I am by a series of choices I made of my own free will. And now? What's changed?

Do I love her?

The answer is not so simple. The answer is not emphatic. It is maybe. There are certainly moments where seeing her pushes my chest out, pumps it with air til it threatens to burst, or leave me breathless. There are times she looks at me from across a room—just looks at me, honestly—and I feel it begin, that flash of an ache, that dull pleasure that pierces my abdomen between my belly button and my clit.

_But do I love her?_

There are moments when I go over to her apartment, letting myself in without even bothering to knock anymore. I will walk confidently up behind her, and she will straighten her back to turn and I won't let her. Instead, I will tilt her head back and kiss her with all the desire she'd struck up earlier in the day, with one of her looks, with a text message or an offhand comment in passing. I tilt her head back and I kiss her and my hand strokes from the tip of her chin down to her collarbone, slowly but surely passing over her trachea, both of us altogether too aware how vulnerable she is. And the desire will ramp up, and I will moan and my hand will stop wandering and it will grip—lightly, too lightly to cut off her breathing or even cause her any discomfort—but just roughly enough that we both know she is mine, that she is submitting, that she trusts me utterly and completely with her body.

Her body which is not really her body.

Her body which belongs to my employer. I've seen a dozen pictures of bodies exactly like hers, in full detail.

And she has no idea. She trusts, blindly, and it scares me because I am not blind. But still I test her faith in me. Move my hands to her breasts and flick a finger across her nipple which is already hard because she's been thinking about me, move that same hand down into the waistband of her skirt and slide a finger through her lips which are already soaked because she's been waiting for me. And while I fuck her, while I take her complete trust and use it to reduce her to pleas and whimpers, and breaths, and "God, Delphine"s, and "harder"s, I am not blind to what is happening.

That is why I am writing this. Not to absolve myself, but to incriminate. She deserves to know, not because I love her but because my guilt is becoming too much, and she is beginning to realize something is not right. And I am a good soldier, so I have told the DYAD, and I am a loyal employee so they did not even bother asking me to find out more. They know I will do what I can, as fast as I can because it is what I was trained to do. Most importantly, I am a good girlfriend, so Cosima has no idea of any of this. So she watches me, wondering what I can handle. Watches me, and tries to figure out how to break it to me. Watches me, so trusting that she considers telling me something that sounds so absurd to most people, but is so normal to me now. Clones, large corporations, conspiracies.

I am smoking more cigarettes now, and she is smoking more pot. I tell her I can hardly see her behind all of the smoke. She laughs at my pun and stubs out the joint in between her thumb and forefinger. She leans forward, crawling on her hands and knees across the bed to kneel on it in front of me. She stubs out my cigarette and begins running her fingertips up my bare thigh. She's high, and I've just been fucked by my boss at the institute, and this moment seems entirely off. I catch her wrist, and she looks up at me, eyes hazy and pupils dilated from the weed.

"What aren't you telling me?"

The question shocks her; it shocks me. The truth is, I don't want to hear the answer because the answer means my time playing house is over and my time doing massive spying and damage control has begun.

"What are you talking about?" She's smiling joylessly, anxiety souring the expression at the corners. "There's nothing. I would never lie to you."

And we make love. That is the word for it this time. This time it is slow and sad and I know she is trying to explain everything through her movements. She has a way of doing that, of thinking she can somehow convey an idea through her body, through hand motions or kisses or juts of her hips. I know and she does not. I am not blind, and slowly she is beginning to see.

So I am writing this for her, and for me. I am writing it so that if something goes bad, the truth does not end with me and the whole world does not remain blind. There is no returning from this precipice, but I can certainly detail the landscape. If I tumble over, I will take the DYAD with me.


	2. L'Etranger

I would like to tell you a story. This story does not have a beginning, or an end. It is the story of life and, while we act out its dramas on a daily basis, it does not die when we do, we cannot remove its mask and step outside our roles. All the world's a stage, or whatever. Honestly, I never particularly cared for Shakespeare. It may be a bit cliché, but I've always much preferred French thinkers.

"Maman died today." A young man, twenty-six years old, carefully stuffs the lighter back into the pocket on the chest of his white button-up shirt, then removes the cigarette from between his lips. "Or maybe yesterday, I don't remember. It was sometime in the middle of the night."

He brings the cigarette back up to his lips and inhales again, eyes unequivocal in their fixation on the girl sitting across the room from him. He's leaning against a mantle, though it is too tall for his elbow to rest comfortably, with ankles crossed. She sits on the couch, covered in papers that are strewn across her lap and the coffee table in front of her. She has large eyes and they, too, do not relent in their gaze. But still, she does not speak. It is many long moments before the young man's discomfort overtakes him and he speaks again.

"I spoke with father, there will be a funeral soon. He'd like for us to come." When she still didn't answer, he sighed and went to sit next to her, easing with the sort of pained movement usually reserved for the elderly. "Delphine, you have to go."

"I don't have to do anything." The girl turned back to her work and the young man, knowing arguing was of very little use, returned to the still smoldering cigarette.

At this point, it is worth giving up the ruse. The girl is me, obviously, and the boy is my brother, Guy. And at that moment, though I seemed utterly unphased, a million thoughts raced through my mind. I'd come back to France to make my amends with my mother, to tell her all of my secrets. And now, she was gone. I'd seen her yesterday, hands trembling as she grasped mine, resuming the act of normalcy that plagued my family. I had not been brave enough to break the facade, to tell her.

And now, the truth I'd wanted to tell was buzzing insistently against my thigh. I pulled the phone out and cradled it between my shoulder and my ear.

"Allo?" My French greeting surely seemed foreign to this man, who knew so little of me.

"Bon soir, Delphine." Aldous' voice was smooth, as usual, with a slightly gravelly texture that made his intelligence seem more dangerous than nerdy. "I was wondering if you'd thought any more about my offer?"

"Yes, I have thought about it." I looked over at Guy, who regarded me and my sudden outburst of English with apprehension.

"I can't hold the position for you much longer-" He was going to continue his threat, but I cut him off. I knew I wanted that position. I wanted to be far away from here. In the United States, with my intelligent Canadian lover. The one who showed up on fliers and radio shows. I wanted to be involved in what he'd promised was the project of my career.

"I'm in, Aldous."

"Good." I could feel his smile through the phone. "When you're back in Toronto, call me and we'll iron out the details."

I flew back the next day. I haven't heard from my family since.

When she kissed me, I must admit it surprised me. It wasn't the simple fact that she did it so much as the way. It was slow. She'd moved toward me slowly, she'd licked her lips as though she were lapping molasses from them. Her eyes had held mine and spoken volumes, but I hadn't heard it. Because she'd spoken with her lips as well: "Don't you think it's time we admit what this is really about?" And my heart and my lungs had seized in my chest, and I'd already begun explaining in my head.

_It's to protect you, Cosima, really. I want to help you, the DYAD wants to help you._

But I didn't get to stumble past my "I-" because she hadn't suspected anything, hadn't known anything. Instead she moved even closer, and pressed those cracking lips into mine gently but firmly. My eyes were open but I did not see anything—how had I missed these signs? How had I not realized?

My mouth responded, pushing forward, my hand rising to cup her cheek at the same time my brain was forcing my head away. I rushed out, quickly. I got into the car Leekie had supplied for me so trustingly. I drove as far away as I could. I was repulsed, yet I ached with longing. I _felt_ when I had been numb for so long, driven by my intellect and logic. When she kissed me, I did not imagine her lecturing, did not think of all of the people who would kill for my position as I did with Aldous. I thought of the life that stirred behind my navel, of the deep and sudden knowledge of what exactly to do, where exactly I wanted to touch and move and how, that was suddenly available to me.

I'd never been with a woman, never even considered it. Yet my body knew exactly what to do, and now hated me for withholding it.

Everything had been going according to plan. When she followed me out into the hallway, I knew she was mine. While we talked, she practically—sometimes literally—fell over herself, leaning forward, crossing her forearms, smiling at me from under her lashes. We were playing the game, the one I'd played with so many men before, and we both knew the steps, knew the rules.

"Enchante." She smiled, looking very much like the word—how does one say it in English?-Charmed? She looked as though the enormity of how charmed she felt had just settled in her stomach, like so many butterflies suddenly landing.

"Enchante." She repeated the word, in that same accent Americans have that usually bothered me. But for some reason, instead of having to suppress an eye roll, I realized I was smiling, too. Not the flirty smile that appeased the world, or the tight-lipped smile that felt so sardonic when I was giving it, yet somehow fooled everyone around me. No, this smile bubbled up and popped in my cheeks, making them ache.

That was the moment I knew something had gone terribly wrong. But there's something about trying to find the moment that changed everything that is necessarily futile. We are who we are, what we are. No one moment can change that. Every choice I'd made had led me here, to this woman—this clone—whose hand I held onto a little bit longer than was customary. I knew I'd come to care for her, it was inevitable. And I knew I could not abort the mission. So when she held my hand, drunk and running through the U of M campus, I had told myself we could be good friends, that being a sincere part of her life was part of my job. In fact, I was painfully aware of how much I wanted that. How comfortable I felt with her. How much I felt like the person I had once been and had always thought I would be again—After, after, after...

I had to leave and I knew it. My head was swimming—from the alcohol or from the stealing or the exercise, I"m not sure—and I had a date in an hour. I took a step closer, feeling her tense where I held her arm loosely. I kissed her, slowly and softly, cushioned by European propriety and custom. Though I know I would never linger with a friend that long, nor would the kiss fall so brazenly close to a friend's lips. I wonder now if I knew, but probably not. It is difficult to be self-aware when you have felt anesthetized for as long as you can remember.

I walked away, and though part of me was thrilled, trembling with adrenaline and sexual energy, the other part cracked and broke, spilling tears from me. The first real ones I'd cried in so many years I could not count them.


	3. Glibness and superficial charm

Some Evolutionary psychologists believe the ability to spot deception is a trait innate to human beings. It would make sense, they argue, given that we had to cohabitate in large groups together, depend on one another, trust one another. If someone was lying for their own benefit and you could not detect it, you may not eat or you may be endangered while you sleep. Being able to tell if one is lying was the tissue paper between life and death.

But the unfortunate truth of this fact, the part we all attempt to brush over and make nice with our big talk about _facts_ and _knowledge,_ is that if humans needed to develop the ability to realize when they were being lied to to survive as a species, then enough early humans were lying that it posed a real threat. Lying is not simply something people do, an artifact of our culture; it is our lineage. It is in our genes. It is a part of us.

Some people's genetic predisposition is nurtured from a young age. Those like Sarah Manning and Felix Dawkins learn to lie in order to outsmart others. Their lying is for survival and, as such, it takes on an almost playful quality that glorifies it and makes it appear borderline glamorous from the outside. This type of lie is the Hollywood archetype, the underdog, getting by on their quick wits.

And then there are people like Alison Hendrix, like Aldous Leekie. They lie to keep up appearances, to make themselves seem innocuous and friendly. They tell themselves it is for the best because it avoids conflict. So little of their interactions have any level of genuineness. Small lies like responding "fine" to a friend when asked how their day is going, or "I'm still as in love with you as the day I met you" to a partner, or "you're the smartest person I've ever met." It's strange, though, how quickly these lies build a cage. You cannot hide yourself without obscuring your view of others. They do not live in the same reality as the rest of us.

I was not born a deceiver. It's less that I was not good at lying, necessarily, I just simply never understood its purpose. The first lie I remember telling was to myself. "I'm fine." My feet took me quickly into my house, down the hall, to my bedroom. I sat on my bed, feeling it bounce slightly. I was sixteen. I had just had sex, only... "It's fine. I'm fine." Without changing my clothes, I pulled the covers over my body, over my head, reveled in the safety I found there. "Everything will be okay."

This lie grew, so quickly I did not realize it like strawberry plants year after year, a new plant popping up in a different part of the yard until, untamed, it overgrew the garden, the yard, the neighborhood. I labeled this lie in different ways so that I would not see it; called it _strength_ and _resilience._ Coping. Moving on. In reality, I was stalled in place, watching the world go by and thinking how quickly I must be moving to make the scenery whizz by so fast because the world moved on without me. High marks in college, a new job, an illicit love affair with my boss, the death of my mother. All of these things passed me by and I barely took notice.

She is nervous, I can tell, as she strokes at the back of my hand with her thumb. She's walking half a step in front of me so that our hands dangle comfortably without any strange contorting on either of our parts, but I can still see most of her face clearly.

"I have something to tell you." She cleared her throat, hand squeezing then releasing as she slowed to a stop, turning and smoothing her hands over her skirt. I stop beside her and raise my eyebrows, upset that our comfortable silence and my thoughts have been disrupted. "You were right. I lied to you, earlier."

"Oh?" The statement coincides so perfectly with my thoughts.

"In Toronto, I didn't go to see my aunt, I went to go see... God, this is crazy. Okay." The panic rises in my chest, and suddenly I wish I were assigned to Alison, who had been married to her monitor for years, yet still hadn't told him anything about the clones. Not a single word. And they all knew she'd made contact. "So, there are a few parts to this. Um, the first is this." She swept her arm to the side, to the restaurant next to us.

"I don't understand." Is all I can mutter. Does DYAD own this restaurant? Is Sarah there?

"This place does molecular gastronomy. They have reservations for, like, the next year but I got us in! My friend used to be a sous chef here, but she moved to Toronto. That's who I was visiting." Her smile was so large, her eyes firing like sparklers in the hands of children. "They've managed to combine food and science, it's the perfect place."

"Wow, Cosima." I was smiling, too, because when she smiles, I can't help but do the same. I lied to myself and told myself I wa being paranoid, but I still couldn't shake the feeling there's more to the Toronto trip than she was letting on. "Merci." I leaned down to kiss her, but she pulled away.

"Um, there's more. I... discovered something about myself on that trip." She swallowed, stared at the pavement between us. "I realized that I—" She trailed off, laughing and shaking her head. "You know what? Let's have dinner first. Is that okay? If I tell you after dinner?"

He never mentions my drinking. It is one of the few courtesies we have left, the two of us. He is no longer courting me, my honeymoon phase with the DYAD is long over. When he shows up at my apartment at night, deigns to make me a booty call without me ever telling him he can come over—when he shows up at my door all charming smiles and laughing until he notices the almost empty bottle of wine, the second one already open, the scent still fresh on my breath that smile fades and he brings his hand to his lips, rubbing gently at them.

I used to think this was a gesture of thoughtful concern. Now I know much better. He is stalling, he is playing me. He is projecting concern in a very intentional way. I think of my college roommate, a psychology major. I think of drinking wine and laying next to her on the floor because our beds were too small to fit two. She reads from her abnormal psychology textbook. _Glibness/Superficial Charm. "What does that even mean? Glibness."_ And she would giggle as I said the word, over and over. I don't feel like laughing much now as I think of this man and his cold, calculating warmth.

"Do you have something to say, Aldous?" I'm not letting him in now, instead leaning against the door with my hip and its frame with my hand.

"No, Delphine. What you choose to do with yourself outside of work is your business."

It is a courtesy, more than opening doors for me or knowing how I take my coffee or even being there when I wake up in the morning because he's certainly never done that. It is a courtesy, more than the "loving intervention" Donnie set up for Alison. He put me here, and now the least he can do is let me cope without interruption.

I'm thankful for Cosima because she is an excuse. I am smoking out on the balcony tonight, leaned against the railing when he comes by, and I smash it out against the metal and make my way to the door. When I open it his eyes sweep my body—covered just barely by a robe and underwear—and moves to kiss me without even a word of greeting.

"Aldous, I can't." I step back, distancing us with an arm. "Cosima just called, she is having a rough time and wants some company. She's coming over."

"Oh." His face is still close to mine, and I can tell he's processing the information through his desire for me. My stomach churns. There was a time I found this charming, and that makes it worse. He straightens his back, bringing him to his full height, which is easily five inches taller than mine. "All right, then."

He leaves and I pick up my phone, studying it, wishing it would ring and I could hear her voice. I wish she were really coming over. I wish she would come and whisper appreciation onto my skin, paint love onto my neck with her tongue, scrub away the ghosts of his touch, of my past, with her fingertips and her sweet nothings, and the way she says my name. Like she does whenever I see her, like she did for the first time so many months ago now. It does not feel like that long, yet somehow it feels like forever.

"Wait, wait, wait." She pulls away from me, eyes still closed, body still leaning closer to me, forehead rested against mine so that it will not take long for our lips to find one another again when she is finished. "The other thing I wanted to tell you about Toronto." She pulls back more, sitting on her feet, still straddling me on the bed. I want to be closer to her, so I sit up, pressing our torsos together. "It's going to sound weird. And sort of crazy." The panic rises in my chest. No. Not now, I'm not ready. Don't disclose, don't end this. I want to live this charade forever, I was just starting to think it was real. "I—I'm—" She swallows and looks into my eyes, traces my cheekbones with her thumbs. "I'm in love with you, Delphine."

And I know I love her, too, but it aches, radiating from the marrow of my bones to the hairs on my arms because I can't. When she finds out (and she will figure it out, she's too smart not to), she will no longer look at me the way she does. I will be the enemy and it will make sense for her to hate me, to push me away, to never see me again. And I will drink. And I will long for her, for the time we spent together. And I will smoke. And I will lose myself in this emptiness, when that day comes.

But today is not that day, so I flip her over, making her chuckle, and bite her lip, wiggling in place a little until I'm pinning her with my body weight and all of the childish joy is sucked from her by a kiss that I can only hope is infused with my desire for her. I tug at the backs of her thighs and she wraps them around me without hesitation. She pushes our hips together, making both of us aware of how there are far too many clothes between us. We separate, each of us removing the barriers ourselves, aware of how much faster it will be, how much quicker we will be pressed together, skin against skin, feeling each other's heat and friction. I stand and she wiggles out of her dress, and I out of my skirt and blouse, and then we're back together, my hips grinding against hers, pressing wildly, instinctually, in a way I'd never realized was in me before I met her.

She's gulping down breaths, surprised at my ferocity and not willing to question it. Tilting her hips in just the right way so that mine press against her clit with every crash, and she's whimpering in syncopated rhythm with my bites into her neck and shoulder that coincide with the shocks of electricity that sizzle through the pipeline from my chest to my groin and back. She slips a hand between us, taking control of the situation, as she often does, teasingly playing with me, dipping her finger inside of me to the first knuckle, then back out, up to my clit and back down.

We're not moving now, neither of us, as I wait impatiently for her to fuck me, and she revels in the small tensing and releasing of different muscle groups in my body. She licks her lips as she watches the space between our bodies, sees where her hand disappears and how my hips sometimes jerk, and sometimes roll smoothly as she teases me. My chest is heaving and her other hand comes up to graze a nipple and I wonder how I lost control of this situation so quickly.

"Delphine." Her voice is quiet, awed, yet she tugs harshly on my nipple, and my hips jerk, taking her finger in deeper as they go.

I drop my head and let it hang, face obscured by my hair and mouth lingering open in a silent, elongated moan. "Y-yes, cherie?"

"Do you love me, too?" Her lower lip is trembling just the smallest bit, and I can tell she's afraid. I can tell I hold her heart in my hand and I could crush it wit a flick of my fingers.

"Yes, Cosima." She rewards me by pressing her finger into me as deeply as she can. "Shit." It's always strange to me when I swear in English. There's something oddly romantic and illicit about it, like I am still a schoolgirl learning how to swear in other languages from the foreign exchange students after class.

"Say it." Her finger, joined by a second, pulls out again, then moves languidly back into me, flows with force but no sense of urgency, like the tides.

"I love you, Cosima." My thighs are shaking—she's pressing her thrusts into me with the force of her hips, using her legs wrapped around me for leverage—but I'm not about to tell her to stop, especially not when she's picked up her pace, fucking me properly, and whimpering along with me now that she's managed to press her clit into the back of her hand while she fucks me.

Her hand moves from my nipple to the back of my neck, bringing me down into a kiss that makes me forget about my quaking muscles and lose myself in the moment again. She breaks away from me, pulling at my lip with her teeth as she moves, tearing the moan from me until she has to release me to flop flat onto her back. She arches her head back as she picks up her pace, biting at her lip and grasping at her hair, at the bedspread, and then at my back in quick succession, as though she's not entirely sure where her hand belongs.

"Say it again." It sounds like a command, but it's a request, a desperate one from a woman teetering on the edge, who needs to be talked down.

"Je t'aime."

"Fuck." Three more thrusts and she slows inside me, huffing out short breaths, shoulders pushing her body off the bed, grasping at my back and leaving searing lines on my shoulder from where her short nails scraped my skin.

I give her a minute to collect herself, but my body is riding her hand without thinking about it, small thrusts that I can't help because fuck, I'm close, too. My hand is clenching and unclenching the sheets, feeling selfish but also wishing she'd come down and realize how badly I need her. Her eyes flutter open, all afterglow and hazy, loving eyes until she realizes. And smirks.

"Mmm. Do you need something, Dr. Cormier?" I hate it when she does this, and she knows it. I'm not uncomfortable with sex, but there's still something that feels weird about saying what I want. I've never had to do it. The men I'd slept with before followed the script: Kissing, foreplay, fucking, maybe using their hands to get me off when they finished before me. But she wants to hear me say it, in detail. Wants me to lay out a plan.

"Cosima, please." My hips buck on her stilled fingers again.

"Please what?"

I falter, the disconnect between my brain and my mouth so profound I don't know if it's ignorance or embarrassment that keeps me from speaking. She pulls her hand out from between us and I whimper out a small "non," but it does not stop her from taking her fingers into her mouth and moaning.

"You taste so good, baby." She rolls her hips up to meet mine again, and it sends scalding shocks out to my fingertips and toes. All I can think about is how I wish she would stop teasing me.

She rolls us so that she's straddling me on the bed, reaching down and pressing her fingers into herself, surging forward onto her fingers and pressing the back of her hand into me. "You are such a—" But she cuts me off by bringing those same fingers up to my lips, waiting patiently for me to open them and let her push them inside. I suck her taste off her fingers, licking up the underside of them, and hearing a little whimper when I do. It's still odd to me how this is so sexy; it's one of those things about sex with a woman I would never have guessed.

"What do you want, Delphine?" Her voice is low, the teasing dropped from her timbre, now just pure desire.

"I want you to fuck me." It doesn't take long from there, her fingers entering me sharply and fucking me mercilessly, with a few well-timed curls, and I melt into her bed, grasping at her dreads and whimpering and pressing into her and pulling her down and just wanting her touching me everywhere we can make contact.

And as I return from my high, I realize she's collapsed on top of me, nuzzling into my neck, whispering her secrets into it.

"I love you so much."

And I know she is not lying.


	4. Hitler is not dead

In the early 20th century, there was a place called the Cold River Institute. For all intents and purposes it was a hospital, though by modern standards one could hardly call what was practiced there medicine. People with disabilities—the mentally ill, babies born with physical or cognitive abnormalities—were sent there to rot, their lives considered unworthy of living by the government and society as a whole. Because the people were there were considered sub-human, they were wards of the state; and because they were deemed incapable of making their own decisions, the doctors there had rein to do whatever they saw fit to their charges.

"The place of screams," one file had recorded a resident saying.

"You're a Eugenicist, Dr. Cormier. Is that a dirty word to you, as a scientist?" Leekie glances over his shoulder, eyes flickering over me quickly, searching for a defect in my stance, a falter in my voice.

"No."

And in a way, it's true. The eugenics movement was, at its heart, an optimistic one. One that wanted to rid the human species of suffering and deficiencies. It wanted to give everyone an equal chance by making them as intelligent, as fit, as they want to be.

"Good." He flips the file shut, finally turning to face me as he leans against the edge of his desk. "How are things with Cosima?"

Of course, the movement—at one point gaining incredible amounts of traction and momentum, especially in the United States—fell out of fashion in the 1930s and 1940s for a very good reason. The Holocaust, in its quest to perfect humanity, exposed the ugly truths lurking in the shadow of the happy, beautiful face that had been pasted onto eugenics by scientists. His transition makes me wonder; if it hadn't happen, if things had continued forward in the same fashion as before, would Cosima have been running the world or languishing in the torture of the Cold River Institute?

"They are going well. I still suspect she has made contact with others, but she hasn't disclosed." my hands hold my briefcase in front of my knees, feeling heavy in my shoulder sockets. There's barely anything in the case—Cosima is now my sole project, and most of my paperwork is electronic—but I feel its weight digging into the tender flesh of my palms.

He nods, letting out a small hum as he thinks. "Okay. See if you can figure out who she's in contact with. Do a little snooping if you have to."

"Okay." I turn to walk away, presuming our meeting is over. There's rarely the time for casual chats or fatherly advice giving with us anymore.

"And Delphine?" I turn, waiting patiently for him to finish his dramatic pause. "I know you care about her, remember this is all for her own good."

I nod, feeling my back and shoulders straighten instinctively, before walking out the door. It feels like forever before I'm back in my office and can let my indignation wash over me. Who the hell does he think I am? Does he really think I'd jeopardize a mission, my career, my life? And for what? What isn't he telling me that he's afraid Cosima has?

I find myself wondering about his first question. _Is that a dirty word for you, as a scientist?_ The answer had come to me so quickly, had been conditioned into me by many years of schooling and training, both at the DYAD and elsewhere. Should it be a dirty word? If the Holocaust hadn't happen, if eugenics hadn't failed, would I have been one of the doctors at Cold River, sterilizing women against their will, experimenting on patients that had no way of objecting or protecting themselves?

My phone is ringing, and I pull it out, holding it to my ear. "Miss me already?" Her teasing has begun to rub off on me and I must admit it does not bother me in the slightest.

"Yes." Her answer comes quickly, without thought, and I can feel it land and ease the muscles in my back and neck. "But I was actually calling to say I have to cancel tonight."

"Oh?" I lean back in the chair, a familiar wave of panic passing through me, leaving me breathless.

"Yeah, my aunt got hit by a car. We don't know if she's gonna make it, so I'll be on a plane to San Fran tonight." She chuckles dryly, adding "just my luck, right?"

I don't know what to say, so I say "I'm sorry, Cosima."

"No, no. Don't do that. I'll be okay. _I'm_ sorry for canceling."

My computer has powered on, and I'm already logging into her email account for some sort of clue as to where she's going. I'd figured out the password after a while of watching her discreetly, always careful to make sure I left everything just as it was.

"It's fine, cherie. I understand. Go, be with your family. I will be here waiting when you get back."

She's talking, telling me how great I am and how much she'll miss me, when I find a confirmation email from a week ago, with a purchased flight to Toronto for tonight.

"Where did you say you were going again?" It leaves my mouth before I can think to censor it, and she stops abruptly.

"Oh. Um, San Francisco. Why?" She sounds confused, and just a little wary.

"I want to make sure I remember the time difference, you know, so that I don't call you in the middle of the night by accident." It seems as plausible out loud as it did in my brain and I relax back into the chair, crossing my ankles over one another.

"You're really gonna miss me, huh?"

"Of course." I wish she were here, to flash me her beautiful smile, to reassure me that she was really going where she said she was. I'd believe her if she were here, even if I were watching her board the plane to Toronto. I log out of her email and open up my fake calendar, full of fake classes and fake deadlines. Fake, fake, fake. "I really want to keep you on the phone, but if I don't go now, I'll miss the class I'm supposed to TA."

"Yeah. Of course. Sorry, I forgot you had a class today. Um, I love you and I'll see you soon okay?"

The words still feel bright and new, not yet worn down or mundane from overuse, and I find myself smiling at how normal it all feels, to be in love with Cosima. I let myself believe it for just a little longer, just long enough to respond.

"I love you, too. Let me know when you land so I know you're safe."

I open a new email and address it to Leekie. It stares back at me, cursor blinking at the ready, waiting for my thoughts. It wants me to tell him what I know, that Cosima is leaving town and she isn't going where she says she is, that she is, in fact, going to Toronto where there is a higher concentration of clones than anywhere else in the world.

_Cosima is going to San Francisco. Her aunt was hit by a car, and she is not sure if she'll recover. She wants to be with her family to support them. Her story is plausible, but I will continue to look into it._

Lying to Leekie is not wise, I'm smart enough to know this. The reach of the DYAD continues to surprise me with every passing day. It is not far-fetched to think they may already know where Cosima is going. I will have to tell them eventually. But not now, not yet. Give Cosima a head start, a chance to evade their prying eyes in that city. A chance for her and Beth and Alison to avoid Paul and Donnie and meet unmonitored.

I find myself standing, stumbling down into the old wing where the paper records from pre-electronic days are kept, swiping my passcard to let me into the room. There are some machines for looking at film, dusty and loud and decrepit, a copier, a chainlink cage around the outside that's never locked anyway, that probably hasn't locked for decades. I push through it and pull out the files on Cold River, kept in a series of poorly labeled cardboard file boxes. It's disturbing every time, photographs of deformed children, of medical practice gone horribly, horribly awry.

I look at the sole picture of the physicians unobstructed by surgical masks, all of them smiling into the camera in the same gray suit, arms clapping one another around the shoulders and back, looking... hopeful, perhaps? I try to imagine what they were like. Were they nice? Hard-working? Dedicated? Were they there because they wanted to control other humans or because they legitimately believed the scientific value outweighed the cost to the subjects?

I try to imagine myself there, in that picture, at that institution. Would I fit? If Cosima had wound up there, an aberration of science and I her physician, would I still have loved her?

* * *

"Papi." I am sixteen, learning about World War II in school. "Did you fight in the war?"

My grandfather doesn't speak much, as long as I can remember he was strong arms that held me, security I could nuzzle into, the faint smell of cigarette smoke and wine. He takes another drag from his cigarette, eyes closing then opening, flickering from one of my eyes to the other.

"Yes." The cigarette is back in his mouth, perhaps it never left.

"What was it like?"

I know I've never asked him this question before, but suddenly I've begun to realize the signs that point toward his disillusionment. His stoicism is no longer so romantically masculine, and I begin to wonder if he has horrors for bedfellows. Oddly enough, I secretly hope that he does, that the sudden onset of nightmares and misanthropy can be understood by another human being.

"Hell."

I decide not to speak, not to push. If there is something he wishes to tell me, he will, and I realize it is selfish, to trot his ghosts on display for my benefit. Maybe he is ready now, in his old age, to accept his past, to accept that he must tell _someone._ Or maybe he simply wants to say it out loud, maybe it is the first time he has bothered to say it.

"I had a friend." His voice is very quiet, not unusual for him, but I scoot minutely closer, not wanting to spook him but wanting, needing to hear. "He was a funny, kind fellow. Loved children, and Euchre. Had a wife and kids. He was a Jew. When the Germans occupied, I had to put him on the train myself." He grabs my face, holding it still so I will look him in the eye as he speaks. "You do not want to live with the regrets I do, Delphine." Then he stands, walking into the house as though nothing had happened, and pours himself another glass of wine.

I sit outside, reeling. Suddenly, my demons feel small. I've sent no one to their death. I was not murdered or brutalized that night, at least not physically. But it doesn't chase away the cold, doesn't inspire me to tears as it may have just a few months before. I think of his face as he spoke, of his eyes. Perfectly clear and hard, roughness cut deep into the lines of his face. I imagine it is what my face will look like, one day.

It doesn't, not yet. I wonder if Cosima can redeem me, can redeem the both of us, even in his death. I wonder if I suffer and die for her, if I fight an impossible fight against an immovable object, will it save us?


	5. The etymology of illness

I've been surrounded by illness my entire life. Even my current field revolves entirely around it. At its best, when it's focused around studying the healthy immune system, immunology is interested in how the body battles illness and at its worst, it's interested in how the immune system can ravage a body. White blood cells—which are in place to protect the body—can turn against it and destroy it cell by cell. They have the best of intentions of course, at least as much as single cells can have a intention, but they still kill.

 

An elegant metaphor, really.

 

“Dr. Cormier.” When I looked up, Aldous was watching me. I had no idea how long he'd been standing there, but I had the sense that it was a while. “What are you working on?” He strode toward me, taking far too little time with his overly-long legs. There was something about him that was arachnoid: his long, spindly limbs; the way he could lure you into his reach just to watch you twist uselessly about, each movement simply trapping you more tightly; the way he watched, then swept in when he was ready to kill.

 

“Hmm? Oh.” I dropped my feet from the desk and turned the monitor to the side so he could look at it. “She sent me an email about her trip, but it seemed... off to me.”

 

He leaned down to be closer to the screen, pulling reading glasses from his chest pocket and perching them carefully on the tip of his nose. “Hmm. Have you found anything else yet?”

 

The way he looked at me, mouth open and eyebrows raised, told me he knew what I had intentionally hid from him.

 

“Yes.” I pulled the monitor back toward me and opened the browser with Cosima's email account on it. I tapped the screen with the end of my pen. “She's in Toronto, not San Francisco.”

 

“I know.” He straightened, pulling the glasses off and placing them back in his pocket. “Why didn't you tell us earlier?”  
  


“I didn't know earlier.” He was attempting to faze me, to get me to admit my sneaking around behind his back. “I told you, it all seemed perfectly logical at the time. She usually never lies to me.”

 

My mother suffered from multiple sclerosis, with symptoms appearing early in my childhood. I remember watching her fade. It wasn't simply the disease, either, though the neurological component became visible over time. There was a shift in her from the very second she was diagnosed, a grim determination to keep her head down and survive as long as possible. But that was the problem, that she was just surviving. From that day forward, the light in her faded slowly. She became irritable, angry, and mean. She screamed at her caretakers for the slightest error or impropriety.

 

Leekie snorted gently. “Honesty's important to her, is it?” He picked up the picture I keep of her on my desk, and one corner of his lip curled upward.

 

“It is.” I agreed, and I could feel the way my heart felt restrained by my ribcage, as though the bone was holding it back from bursting from the tension between us.

 

“And yet, you still put her above your work.” He put the picture back down, and cocked his head to the side. “Even if she forgave you for monitoring her, you've been cheating on her.”

 

I looked down at my hands, one of which was sprawled flat in front of the keyboard, the other still wrapped around the mouse. I wondered if it was heavy enough to do any real damage to the bone structure of his face. Maybe a nose break would be sufficient, or a shattered jaw. A sunken cheek. I sucked my own cheeks in enough to be able to bite down on the inside of them. I couldn't say anything. I _shouldn't_. And it's odd because anger is not usually my problem. I am the arbiter, the peace-keeper.  The one following my mother in a string of mumbled apologies.

 

“Look, Delphine.” His large hand covered mine, and I closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath as though it could suppress the gag reflex the combination of his words and his touch had roused. “I'm not trying to be cruel, here. Like I've said before, you're invested and that's good. But don't let it get in the way of your job. She could be in real danger, and you keeping an eye on her is protecting her.”

 

I'm not trying to say that the field I chose is in some way related to my mother's illness. Multiple sclerosis is not an immune disease, it's a matter of the central nervous system. And I don't believe in the focus on singularity, the idea that one thing necessarily leads to another, as related as they may seem. We live through so much, each and every second of our lives its own moment. Whether we realize it or not, we're impacted by this collection of momentary, transitory worlds.

 

“I understand.” I said. He was looking back at me, lips drawn thin and tight. I try to remember wanting to kiss them. I can't. “I'll try to be more vigilant from now on.”

 

“Good.” He smiled. “I have a man on her, to see what she's doing. In the meantime, I need you to dig deeper, faster.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “Things are... progressing.”

 

I just nodded, and he let himself out of my office without even a goodbye.

 

 

 

The night before my mother died, she was paralyzed from the neck down. I still grabbed her hand, and I know she appreciated the gesture, but it wasn't the same. It laid limp in my hand, dead weight that didn't curl around my own or even settle gently on it. It was heavy, a pound of dead flesh. It was like holding the hand of a corpse.

 

“Maman.” I ran a hand along one of her fingers, remembering when they used to hold me still so she could run a comb through my wild, curly hair which was always crusted with mud from the tide pools where I'd play, searching out starfish and sand dollars and crabs. “I need to tell you something.”

 

She could barely move her head anymore, and she blinked at me, clearly too tired to speak.

 

“I—I've been offered a job in America.” I placed her hand down on the bedspread, instead covering it with my own and squeezing. “Minnesota, if you can believe it.” I laughed, and the faintest smile crossed her cheeks. “It's in the middle. I had to look it up on a map.”

 

“Delphine.” Her voice was soft, softer than I ever remembered it being. My mother was not a woman of gentleness, even when she was healthy and at her best, there was an edge to her. Something had hardened her long ago, she never told me what and I never asked. “I'm...” She paused to take in a few deep breaths. She was struggling even with the cannula. “So very... proud.”

 

My jaw seized, forcing my top molars tightly against the bottom. This was not my mother, this was a semblance of her, a wisp of her. It was also the first time I'd ever heard those words from her lips. I nodded. “Merci, maman.”

 

“Tired...” She said, barely more than a breath. I nodded again.

 

“D'accord.” I stood, letting my hand slip off hers, then paused at the doorway. I thought that perhaps I should tell her. Say what I had come to say. Was that really the last conversation I wanted to have with her? The one where I was sleeping with a man for a job? My grasp on the doorhandle tightened, and I breathed out through my lips. “I'll be back tomorrow.”

 

 

 

When Cosima came home, she called me from the airport. I insisted on going over to her apartment immediately, though she did her best to discourage me. It frightened me, to think she didn't want to see me. What had she learned? Did she know about me now? The longer her trip had dragged on, the less she'd contacted me. She called me at least once a day for the first few days, then emailed me, then stopped altogether. Dread took shelter in me. It felt like all I could know, I'd begun to forget what it felt like to be any other way by the time I pulled up outside her house.

 

I knocked on the door, and she pulled it open, joint between her fingers, and dressed in flowing linen pants and a tank top. She nodded at me and stepped aside.

 

“Is everything all right, mon amour?” I asked, walking right up to her instead of into her apartment. I placed a kiss to her neck, breathing in the smell of her. The dread reared up again, and I grasped at her waist, pulling her close to me. Leekie's words were still in my head. She would leave me. She would hate me. I knew she would.

 

“Yeah. I'm fine.” She kissed the top of my head, then pulled back and shut the door. She walked farther into her apartment, standing across the desk from me.

 

“You don't seem fine.” I walked toward her, reaching out a hand, but she pulled it away from me.

 

“I just... I just wanted some space, that's all.” She walked over to her little kitchenette and pulled out a wine glass and bottle. She poured one for herself, didn't ask if I wanted one. She crossed her arms over her chest.

 

“Oh. Okay.” I felt unwanted, out of place. The dread faded to a resigned depression. She knows, and now the fuel that fed the light in me would run dry. “I—I can go.” I stumbled through the words because I couldn't stand the answer I was sure was coming. “I just—I missed you so much, Cosima.” The words broke in my throat and the tears I was trying so hard to hold back were making my eyes and sinuses ache and burn.

 

She sighed, dropping her arms and thumbing the edge of her wine glass. “No, don't go.” She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, shaking her head slowly. “I just had a really hard week.” She looked up at me, into my eyes, and I felt the flint-flick spark inside me again. “I missed you, too.” She reached out a hand, and I rushed to take it, then let her pull me tight against her. “Delphine? Babe?” She was talking to my shoulder, but I didn't dare move away from her.

 

“What, ma cherie?”

 

“What do you do when the truth seems impossible?” All of my muscles tensed, and I held her tighter against me.

 

“I don't know. You manage as best you can, I suppose.”

 

She nodded into my shirt, tears soaking until droplets of them began to prick at the skin beneath it. “No matter what, Cosima,” I pulled back to see her, to look her in the eye, “please don't ever forget how much I love you.”

 

She smiled at me and pulled me down for a kiss. “I love you, too.” She looked down at where our bodies met, at where our breasts were pressed together. “I found out that we have an illness.” She looked back up into my eyes, then stuttered “my family. It might be hereditary. It's fatal.”

 

“Your aunt?” I asked, trying to play coy, to pretend I didn't know what that 'we' meant.

 

Her brow furrowed, then shot up her forehead. “No, no. A—A cousin.” She leaned her head against my shoulder. “I haven't shown any symptoms yet, but every cough... I—I'm scared, Delphine.” By the end of her sentence, she was whispering, and I strained to hear her.

 

“It will be okay.” I responded softly, stroking at her rough hair. “If you do get sick, I will do everything I can to help.”

 

She lifted her head and a small smile pulled up at the corners of her lips. “Thanks, but I don't know what a PhD student can do.”

 

I stroked a thumb along her cheek. I know what I have to do. “I forgot, I promised my mother I would call her. Do you mind?” She shook her head, and I kissed her forehead. “I'll be right back.”

 

I step outside, pulling out my phone and dialing Aldous' number. Calling my mother was the code I'd chosen for calling him. She doesn't even know my mother has been dead for years. I shut my eyes tightly until he picks up. “Aldous, could I speak to you soon? Outside of work.”

 

“Of course, Delphine. Anytime.”

 

I can practically hear his grin through the phone. I am twisting, struggling. I know I'm playing right into his hands, wrestling with the web until I am utterly and completely disabled, but I cannot let Cosima suffer. Will not. I need information, and I need it now.


	6. intimacy, and other punishments

Some say that death is the great equalizer. That it is the only common thread that pulls all humans together into a tight knit group. We all die, even those who haven't really lived. But death varies, some accept it, some seek it, some fear it.

 

I think the common truth among humans is sex. We are all tortured by it in some way, whether it's by wanting it or detesting it. It surrounds us constantly, taunting us with the promise of some grand, ecstatic revelation. Yet it eludes many of us. If we have good sex with someone, it may fade or they may pull away or leave. If we love someone, we may have bad sex with them. Even for those who don't feel sexual desire, its cultural pull is a constant, a reminder of what they don't feel, a reminder of their difference. And there are so many that feel sexual desire but try to ignore or hide it. It is a demon they try in vain to vanquish.

 

The funny thing is that it is omnipresent yet wholly undefinable. Humans can have sex for reasons that aren't reproductive, but the prevailing definition of it is vaginal intercourse between a man and a woman. As a scientist, it's a bafflingly narrow view of such a rich and diverse activity.

 

Besides, I've had plenty of vaginal intercourse that I wouldn't consider sex.

 

Aldous is laying in bed beside me, covers pulled up to his waist. The winter cold is a relief, an odd respite, because he cannot lay comfortably atop them. His reading glasses are perched on his nose as he scrolls through emails on his phone.

 

“So, can I see the files?” I ask, growing impatient with our play at domesticity and normalcy.

 

He doesn't respond, just keeps scrolling down his phone, lips drawn in practiced concentration. I sigh and stare at the ceiling. Suddenly, I miss Cosima enormously. I miss the way she holds me after sex, pulls me toward her or cuddles into my chest. I miss the way her arms feel around me, the way her lips feel as she kisses wherever she can reach: my shoulder or my cheek or my collarbone.

 

Leekie puts the phone and his glasses on the table and looks over at me, and I look back at the click of the items on the table. “I'll upgrade your security clearance to be able to view all the information we have regarding the clones' illness.”

 

I feel relief wash over me, and I close my eyes. I finally feel like I can breathe again.

 

“On one condition.”

 

My blood runs cold, and I can no longer feel my heartbeat. “What?”

 

“I want to meet her.”

 

My personal relationship to sex is complicated. It is a combination of all the attitudes mentioned above. I have had bad sex, I have been surrounded by it when the mere thought of it made me sick. I have taken it with slow, measured moves and I have had it taken from me by harsh weight against my body, by my own silence. To be honest, I can't say I'd ever felt the Hollywood version of sexual attraction before Cosima; The not being able to look away, the instantaneous connection that makes you want someone endlessly. I'd certainly never had the sort of sex that felt like connection to the life force of the universe until her. But now, with her, the world is vivid and exciting. It is full of small marvels. It is real.

 

Cosima runs her finger along the rim of her wine glass and looks down at the man I'm staring at from the second tier of the restaurant. From up here, he seems so small. I consider grabbing Cosima's hand and bolting, giving her all the cash I have and telling her to run far away, to not use her credit cards. Tell her they'll be hunting her but she can be free. But that would mean losing her, my job. It would mean losing everything I've ever worked for.

 

“Remind me why we're here again?” She asks, a subtle frown on the corners of her lips.

 

“He's trying to get me to work for the Dyad. I've shown you their research.” I'm speaking to her but not really looking at her. Instead, my attention remains on Aldous, who is on his way up the stairs. “You'd love it.”

 

“Yeah. I guess you're right.”

 

Leekie is led up to our table by the hostess, and when he arrives both Cosima and I stand.

 

“Which one of you is Delphine Cormier?” He asks, genial smile on his face.

 

I hold out my hand. “That would be me.”

 

“A pleasure to finally meet you.” He turns to Cosima and, though his smile seems genuine enough, to me it reads like an eagle with prey in its sights. “And who's your friend?” He holds his large hand out to her.

 

“Cosima Niehaus.” She interjects on her own behalf.

 

“She's a... friend. A brilliant scientist.” I jump in. It feels silly, to be putting on a show for Cosima, who is already watching him warily from the corner of her eye, gaze lingering just a beat longer as though she can catch him in his lie. “She's in Evolutionary Development, with a focus on clone cells. I thought perhaps the two of you may want to talk transgenic organ transplants.”

 

Leekie looks at me and cocks his head off to the side. “Very bold of you, Ms Cormier.” He says, taking his seat at the table. Cosima and I follow suit. “I haven't even officially offered you the job yet, and you're already recruiting.”

 

“I just believe in seizing opportunities.” I say, pretending to be coy by taking an inordinate amount of interest in the stem of my glass. I look up at him through my lashes. Perhaps flirting a little might encourage him to make this night easier on me.

 

“Hmm.” He's pouring himself a glass of wine, his eyes not on either of us for the moment. I take the opportunity to place a hand on Cosima's thigh. She smiles back at me. He leans back, bringing the glass to his lips. “I bet you do.”

 

Cosima's face twitches in annoyance and I grasp tighter to her leg. She covers my hand with her own.

 

The night is not particularly eventful, to be truthful. He and Cosima end up in a spirited conversation about cloning, and I spend most of the night playing peacekeeper and gnawing my bottom lip raw—from both worry and the way Cosima's fiery insubordination twists my insides into a pleasant tension. She is not afraid of him, will not suck up to him, and she wants him to know it. I can only watch and wish I were so brave and self-assured.

 

“You could be on the cover of Scientific American.” I'd been paying only peripheral attention to the conversation thus far, preferring to remain out of the line of fire. Tonight isn't really about me, anyway. But that sentence hit heavily, like someone had turned the notch up on gravity. My cursory attentiveness snapped into full entrancement as I watched Cosima lean forward, eyes narrowed into small slits.

 

“They don't put scientists on the cover of Scientific American.”

 

I'm looking between the two of them, shock at Aldous' error written plainly on my face. If either of them had broken their staring contest long enough to notice me, I would surely have given away the entire game.

 

“Every rule needs to be broken.” Leekie replies, pleasant smile still bright on his face.

 

For the first time that night, I want him to look at me. I want him to acknowledge that he'd seen it, too.

 

She knows she's the science, not the scientist.

 

And she's somehow made the connection that the scientists are the Dyad Institute.

 

Merde.

 

She's quiet the whole ride home, staring out the window at the passing lights of Minneapolis. It's a city, but it still feels sleepier than the other major cities I'd lived in. There were certainly parts of it that stayed awake until the sun rose again, but the area where Cosima lived was always quiet by ten. I pull up in front of her building and turn off the engine.

 

“Are you all right?” I ask, reaching out a hand to stroke along her cheek.

 

She sighs, and turns her head away. “Yeah, I'm fine.” She says. She looks back at me, hand rising to the door latch. “You coming in?”

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

She swallows, eyes searching mine, finding nothing but the same golden-flecked brown she always does. “It doesn't matter.”

 

My hand that's still on the steering wheel tightens around it. “Did I do something wrong?”

 

“No.” She runs a hand over her hair. “No, that guy just gave me the creeps.”

 

“He's a brilliant scientist.” Is all I can say, because I'm supposed to be trying to recruit her to the Dyad. After tonight, I don't know if she'll ever agree.

 

“I thought you might say that.” She mutters under her breath.

 

I say “what?” though I heard her. It takes my brain a few seconds to process her words and by then I've already spoken.

 

“Nothing. Look, I'm tired. Just come in, okay? We can talk about it in the morning.”

 

I nod, and let her take me up to her room. Once we are lying in her bed, she turns away from me, but lets me hold her anyway. She laces one of her hands into mine on her stomach. There's something oddly stiff about it, something hollow. I can feel her begin to shake when she thinks I've fallen asleep.

 

“Delphine?” She whispers, a few minutes later. “Are you awake?”

 

I nuzzle into the roughness of her hair and inhale, nodding. “Oui.”

 

“You love me, right?”

 

I pull her tighter against me, curling my legs so I'm touching her in every possible way. “Yes, of course I love you, ma cherie.”

 

“And you want me?” The pleading tone in her voice catches me off guard.

 

Sex was the one place I'd been sure couldn't be questioned. After all, I was always wet for her, always touching her and pulling her close. Always whimpering and moaning her name. We had sex almost every day we managed to see each other. More than that, I always tried to kiss her like it might be the last time, like I could convince her of my love with each stroke of my lips and tongue.

 

“Of course I do.” I prop myself up on my elbow to look at her, but she turns away. “Cosima, what's wrong?”

 

“Nothing.”

  
I realize she's been shaking because she's crying and my heart cracks open. _She knows._ I drop back down to my side because anything I could say to her now to console her would either be an illegal breach of contract or a lie. So, I just pull her closer and nuzzle into her.

 

Perhaps it's not sex, after all, these things that bind us to one another. Perhaps it's the cycle of betrayal, pain, and hope. Losing and aching. Then healing and trying again, and thinking perhaps the result might be different. Einstein's definition of insanity. She finally falls asleep in my arms, the arms of the enemy.


	7. Turn and face the strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Just popping in to say thanks for the feedback and all that, y'all are the absolute best! Anyway, shit's about to hit the fan a little, so I hope you're ready for some high-octane drama. As always, enjoy and let me know what you think!

I wish I could say I had dreamed that night, that my unconscious mind had led me to some revelation of what to do. I wish I could relate to you some bizarre, yet symbolically enlightening story that would cement my position as the hero of this tale by spurring me to do the right thing, whatever that may be. But instead I laid awake until the sun began to curl around Cosima's thick curtains, thinking of what would happen in the morning. The way I saw it, wrapped against Cosima in the unbelievably fluffy comforter on her bed—so fluffy I often awoke feeling like I was drowning in it—there were two paths laid out in front of me.

 

I could wait to see what she did, wait for her to bring it up and try to defend myself that way. Or, I could attempt to preempt her assault on my character and intentions by disclosing the truth first. Perhaps that would be the best way to explain things to her, to convince her I'd had a change of heart and truly despised what the Dyad was doing. But there was a downside to that, as well. Getting on Cosima's bad side meant heartache; getting on the Dyad's? Well, let's just say the threat of being sued for breach of confidentiality wasn't exactly what was hanging over my head. Dyad employees who didn't do what they were told had a way of dying inconspicuously or disappearing altogether.

 

“Do you believe people can change?”

 

Cosima and I were walking together, hands entwined between us, a travel mug full of red wine held in her free one. We'd begun to walk like this often, when she grew tired of studying and decided she wanted some fresh air, when her muscles began to ache with disuse and being bent around each other too long.

  
“Hmm.” It was fairly early in our relationship, when the madness of burgeoning love was at its wildest and we could hardly stand to be apart. We were still both so insecure with one another, then, so worried about what the other thought. “I don't know. I suppose that depends on what makes up a person.”

 

She nodded, considering what I said, then responded “what do you mean?”

 

“I mean, people can and do change their behavior. Their feelings around a situation may change and that can cause them to act differently, but that presumes that actions are the most important aspect of someone's personality.”

 

“They're the only way other people have of gauging a change in someone, aren't they?” She was staring at the ground, which was rather uncommon for this woman who tended to walk with her head up to the world in challenge.

 

“Yes, I suppose so. But perhaps there's something more than that? Can a generally sullen person learn to be happy and amiable?” I shrugged. I tried to think of myself. I certainly _felt_ different around Cosima, my intentions and feelings toward my job had most definitely shifted from dutiful to conflicted. I didn't think I was an altogether different person, though.

 

“Maybe it's just so gradual, no one notices. It's not like a 90s romantic comedy where you can turn a geek into a homecoming queen in a few weeks.”

 

“And that would simply be managing others' perceptions.” I agreed, accepting the mug when Cosima held it out to me.

 

“So, yes? People can change?” I had the vague sense that Cosima was unsatisfied with our conversation. She wasn't unfamiliar with grey areas, but I knew that uncertainty rarely sat well with her. She liked for things to be true or untrue, supported or unsupported. It was the scientist in her, I supposed. Years of training to think that way—to think that there was a truth that only needed uncovering.

 

“Sure, why not?” I asked, attempting to quash the conversation before it could get out of hand.

 

I felt her tugging on my arm, bringing me to a small park nearby where she could fall onto a swing and slowly push back and forth. We were silent for a few minutes, listening to the quiet, rhythmic squeak of the swings' hinges and the faraway sound of cars humming by on the major street a few blocks away. I considered saying something, but no new topic came to mind and the way Cosima was staring off at the glint of streetlights on the glossy plastic slide in front of us made me feel as though she hadn't dropped the last.

 

“I think I've changed.” She said. Her voice in the darkness seemed sharp despite the fact that it was quiet. Somewhere nearby, drums and guitars sounded distractingly into the night, an indistinct male voice crooning words I couldn't make out in the slightest.

 

“How so?”

 

Her foot slipped on the wood chips, and the swing brought her into a more pronounced forward arc than normal. “I just don't feel like the person I was before. Like, I can't even get into that person's head anymore. Can't remember what I was thinking.”

 

I grasp the chain a little tighter, push myself a little harder on the swing, try to buy myself time to say the right thing. “I understand that.”

  
There are so many things I've done that made perfect sense at the time, that I'd run enthusiastically toward without thinking of the consequences. When I think of myself then, think of what a fool I was, I realize it does feel like being a different person entirely.

 

But I'm not a different person.  It seems reckless to think that way, to distance ourselves from our past actions so soundly. I made the decision to become 324b21's monitor, but I also made the decision to change my behavior. I wonder if bringing it up now would  alter something  in Cosima, make her understand—I did something many years ago that I regret, that brought into motion me being here right now, but now everything is different.  _I_ am different. I am  still the monitor that was assigned to report on Cosima's well-being,  but I am  also now the woman who loves her. I wonder if she could comprehend that, if she could trust it.

 

She stirs against me, and I pull her back, tighter into my chest. Little did I know that all of my wishing, all of my thoughtful problem-solving was useless. I may have had two paths to go down, but I was not the only actor in this drama. Cosima could pull me in any number of directions I'd never even considered.  I bring my hand up and h o ld the weight of one of her breasts in my hand, feel her chest rise sharply then deflate into a content sigh.

 

Cosima has always liked waking up like this, I know. She is so different from me, I can barely conceive it. The one time she attempted to wake me this way, I'd  shoved her away, yelled at her. I remember being confused and angry, feeling out of control. I envied that she could be so certain the person touching her was a friend, someone with the intention of drawing her slowly back into the waking world with the lure of pleasure. I have never been so  full of faith in others ' motivations and actions .

 

I stroke my thumb along the center of her breast, finding her nipple and focusing on it, and she rolls back tighter against me. Her hand tangles in my hair and pulls my face into her neck. I wonder if this will be the last chance I have to be intimate with her, to touch her in the ways I crave when we're apart. Even when I'm doing similar things with other people.

 

I move my hand to tease at her other nipple, and she presses her hips back into me, letting my name fall into the pillow her head is resting on. I can't stand it any longer. My name on her lips has always been the most potent aphrodisiac, and I let my fingers slide slowly down, touching her stomach lightly through the thin material of her shirt.

 

But even that is strange. I can't remember a single time I've ever seen Cosima in pajamas before now. Even on nights we were too tired to have sex or simply not in the mood, we slept naked together. Just for the comforting feeling of our skin pressed together, of waking up smelling like one another's sweat.

 

I slip my hand into the waistband of her pants and stroke lightly at her outer lips. It gives me pause, she is not as wet for me as she usually is—as she always is. I press my finger in and run it over her clit, and she tenses against me, letting out a small whimper into her pillow. The wetness is gathering now, I can feel it edging against my hand, and I start to trace the rim of her cunt, attempting to tease more from her.

 

“Je t'aime.” I tilt my chin up so the words are right in her ear, gentle and encouraging. Normally, this would rile her to aggression, to bucking her hips and flipping us over, to begging for me to be inside her. This time, though, she grabs my wrist and stops moving entirely except to bury her head further into the pillow. I feel her shoulders shake gently. “Mon amour, what's wrong?”

 

I reach up to stroke at her hair, and hear a heavy, muffled exhale.

 

“I want to say it back.” She's lifted her head enough for the words to be clear, but I still don't feel like I understand.

 

“So why don't you?”

 

“Because, how can you love someone you don't even know?”

 

Her words turn my arousal into anxiety instantly. It's a strange thing, how similar these two feelings are. Fluttering heartbeat, muscle tension, tight twisting in the abdomen. Except one bodes pleasure and the other pain. Such a thin line.

 

“I don't understand.” I appear to have chosen the first path, I muse, though it was hardly really a choice at all. The words slip out before I have a chance to edit them.

 

“Of course you do, Delphine.” She sighs, pulling my hand away from her and flipping onto her back. Her eyes are still red and moist, but she's not crying now. “If Delphine Beraud is actually even your name.”

 

She's squinting at me without her glasses, but I'm looking down at the comforter, smoothing over a rumple with my hand. “Cormier.” I say, quietly, surprising both of us. “Delphine Cormier.”

 

She's standing, moving to her desk before she asks anything else. I wait, listening to the hum of her laptop powering on, to the gentle tapping of her fingertips on the keys. She doesn't come back, though at some point the ticking of the keyboard stops. I can see her from where I'm laying and she's frozen still, hunched forward with her elbows on either side of her computer, holding her head in her hands.

 

“Cosima?” I stand and move toward her slowly, like cornering a wild animal, expecting her to spin and attack at any moment. She doesn't, though. She lets me come up behind her and look at the screen, as well. It's a picture. A picture of me. With Leekie.

 

_Dyad Scientists Discover New Treatment for Mystery Disease_

 

I'd been so proud of that moment, that article. It seems stupid and inconsequential now. I reach a hand to Cosima's shoulder but she rolls it so my hand falls back to my side.

  
“You already have your doctorate. You work for the Dyad.” She says, bitter tinge to her voice. “Don't you?” I nod, and she keeps going. “And your job is to watch me, to report what I'm doing to them, isn't it?”

 

“Yes.”  
  


She stands abruptly, the chair almost shoving into me and making me jump to the side to avoid it. “Shit.” She starts to pace across the cramped living space. “I am so stupid!” She spits out, brimming tears contrasting with angry, grinding teeth.

 

“No. No, mon amour.” I reach out to touch her again, but she pulls back and shoots me a warning glance of barely contained rage. I let my hand hang in the air. “All of this, it was meant to deceive you.”

 

“I thought I could trust you.” Her voice breaks, and I feel suddenly weak. I lean on the desk. I think I preferred her rage to this.

 

“You _can_ trust me.”

 

She scoffs and walks into her bedroom, and I follow but remain lingering in the doorway. I lean against it and feel my own tears start to sting in my eyes and blur my vision. She pulls a suitcase out from underneath her bed and flips it open. “Stupid!” She spits at herself again.

 

“Cosima, please, what are you doing?”

 

“What the fuck does it look like, Delphine?” She throws a shirt into the suitcase, the thin material landing with an unsatisfying flutter. “I'm leaving.”

 

“Why? Where are you going?”

  
She stops for just a second to look at me, curiosity peeking from behind her anger. “Why? Do you need to type up a comprehensive report?” Her tone is no less vicious than before, and I realize the sudden lull in her quick retorts was not curiosity, but perhaps opportunism?

 

“Of course not!” I shout, because she isn't listening to me, and maybe volume will force her to. “I'm asking because I care about you.”

 

“Bullshit.” She goes back to packing, and throws over her shoulder without even looking up at me, “just go, Delphine.”

 

I walk over to her, reaching for her arm, but she pulls away again, crossing her arms and leaning against the sill of the bay window.

  
“When I took the job, I—I saw you as a clone, as science. That is true, okay?” I'm begging, and it's shameless, and I can't bring myself to care anymore. “I was just supposed to be your friend, that's all I wanted, but then you kissed me and I fell for you like I never have for anyone before. I meant all of it. All of it was real except for a few lies at the beginning.”

 

She shakes her head, chuckling humorlessly. “You really don't get it, do you?” She finally looks me in the eye, but I find no comfort in it, only a rapidly diminishing hope. “Everything that you're saying is real was built on lies. It's a house of cards, Delphine, and you know it.”

 

I look down at the floor, digging my nails into my thigh. It's a cold comfort, but one that reminds me this moment is real. I can't let myself fall back and let it happen, let her slip away. “I love you.”

 

“I loved who I thought you were. I thought we had everything. The kind of relationship people dream about, the kind I never thought existed before you.” She says, eyes holding mine with a watery intensity that makes my courage shrivel and starve inside me. “But I don't really know the real you at all. It was all an elaborate production. Meant to deceive me.”

 

My own words come back and bury to the hilt in my chest. I want to explain that that's not what I meant, that the Dyad meant to deceive her, meant to deceive me, too. I want to explain the myriad personality tests, the careful planning to make sure we would be compatible. I want to tell her that I only ever wanted what was best for her, from the start. But the words bottleneck in my throat and all that will come out is “Cosima.” I take a step toward her, but she brushes me off with a shake of her head.

 

“No.” She points toward the door, and her voice drops an octave, tinged with the same dangerous warning her stare had given earlier. “Get out.”

 

I drive to the park near Cosima's house and stare at the swingsets, now occupied by children being pushed by their parents. One father pulls back on the swing and rushes forward, ducking under his daughter's body and letting her go, shouting something I can't make out through the glass of my car window. He's smiling, and I can hear the faint sounds of the little girl's laughter as she pumps her legs without any semblance of coordination, still much too young to understand even the most basic physics behind the action.

 

I consider going to sit on the empty swing at the end, but decide it would be much too unseemly for a grown woman without children to sit on a playground alone and chainsmoke at nine in the morning. So instead, I crack my car window enough that I can light a cigarette without choking myself and pull out my cell phone.

  
It doesn't take long for Leekie to answer. Perhaps he was in another time zone on a last minute business trip; or maybe, he'd spent the entire night at work, as he was prone to doing on occasion. Either way, all I can think to say at his prompting is “she knows.”

 

“Oh.” I can imagine his face, eyebrows rising up and knitting together as he leans back in that large leather chair of his. “What did she say?”

 

“That I was her monitor. I tried to reason with her, but she kicked me out.” I try to sound as calm as possible, and on the surface I feel clean, polished and untouchable. I don't close my eyes, because I don't want to see her face on the backs of my lids again. Not while I'm talking to Leekie. “She was packing her bags, she wouldn't tell me where she was going.”

 

“We'll find out.” He says solidly, as though it was as simple as a google search. “When we do, I want you to follow her.” I lean my head against the window.

 

“I don't think she'll want to see me, Aldous.” I admit, and it pains me to say it out loud.

 

“Make her want to, then.” He sighs, as though I'm a child that needs everything explained to her. “You have certain... gifts... that made you perfect for this assignment. Use them.” I'm about to ask him to outline exactly what he's talking about when something draws his attention elsewhere and he says a quick goodbye.

 

I hear the click of his phone hitting the receiver and the dwindling tone of my cell phone letting me know the call has ended. I drop it into my lap. “Merde.”

 

I should probably start to pack.


End file.
